A Hero Lost
by turtle53
Summary: Ron lost his best friends in the war and pushed his friends and family away. After a drunken night, Hannah helps him realize that seclusion isn't the best solution.


Just a oneshot that came out of another one I was writing, which was supposed to be Ron/Pansy but turned into this. Hope you like it! reviews appreciated =D

Alas, I do not own Harry Potter.

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><p>Hannah remembered the first night Ron Weasley came to the club she bartended at, a few nights after it opened. Diagon Alley wanted a place that appealed to the younger generation of the Wizarding World, and so a club was opened at the edge of the town. The young witches and wizards eagerly dove in, filling the place night after night, searching for ways to escape from the solemnity that was their world, between all the memorials and the rebuilding.<p>

He came alone, without a sibling or even a friend. She had heard from Ginny that he had stopped talking to anyone he knew, stopped coming out of his apartment.

She would probably lock herself away too, if she had lost her best friends to the war.

He was surrounded by people in a matter of seconds. He was a war hero and deserved their attention. He let them chatter for a while, about different things, none of which he looked remotely interested in. It was obvious to Hannah he wanted to be left alone, but there was nothing she could do.

He sat at the bar for an hour before he ordered anything. Then he taught her to recognize the signs that meant he needed to be cut off; he began swaying in his seat, slurring his words when he asked for more Firewhiskey. The crowd around him dispersed, slightly appalled at the sight of a drunk Ronald Weasley. When she did cut him off, he wasn't angry as she expected him to be. He simply stared at her, hands gripping the wood for support, and then muttered a slurred "Thank you" before leaving, swaying dangerously as he exited.

As she watched him, she began to grow anxious. Getting someone to cover the rest of her shift for her, she grabbed her coat and took off the same direction Ron had just gone. She stepped out into the night, unnaturally cold for being so close to summer. She saw the line at the entrance, wrapping around the side of the building, but no Ron.

She was just about to go back inside and take over her shift again when she heard a noise coming from the alley between the club and a store that sold magical antiques. It sounded like crying.

Pulling her coat tighter around herself, she followed the noise, lighting the way with her wand. What she saw broke her heart.

Ron sat slumped against the wall, legs splayed out before him. He had no coat, only a threadbare crimson sweater, and he was sobbing into his hands.

Hannah crouched down next to him and set her wand on the ground, patting him softly on his knee with one hand and trying to pry a hand away from his face with the other.

"Let's get you home," she said gently, trying to stop the tears from forming in her own eyes as she watched a hero of the war reduced to crying drunkenly in an alleyway. She wanted to get him home before anyone else saw him.

He finally relented and allowed her to take his hand. She pulled him to his feet and threw one of his arms around her shoulder, struggling to stand under his weight. As quickly as she could, she turned, apparating to his apartment flat at the other end of Diagon Alley.

She pushed open the door to what she hoped was his room with her shoulder, dragging Ron behind her, who had decided to let Hannah do all the walking work. Sighing with relief at the sight of a bed, she carefully placed Ron in the center, trying not to drop him forcefully onto it. She pulled off his shoes and threw the blankets on top of him.

She left the room to search for the kitchen but stopped when she saw the living room, a small gasp escaping.

She and several other of Ron's Hogwarts friends had stopped by his flat a few months ago, when the war ended, to see how he was doing. The apartment had been in good shape then, being brand new and Ron having given some sort of effort to keep the place clean.

It seemed he had given up the effort. The living room was a mess; weeks old newspapers littered the floor and coffee table, coffee mugs and dirty plates taking up residence on the table as well, sofa pillows thrown carelessly on the floor. She turned away and resolutely headed for the kitchen, where she was greeted with a sight similar to the one she had just left. Dirty dishes piled up in the sink, food left on the counter. She opened a cabinet and found one glass left. She filled it with water and took it back to Ron, who was still crying.

She had no idea he was having such a hard time dealing with what happened.

She set the glass on his bedside table and then, at a loss for what to do, turned to leave.

"Please," he said, his eyes closed. "Don't leave."

She stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was speaking to her. He couldn't possibly be, he didn't even know she was there, he was drunk—

"Hannah, please," he slurred through his tears, eyes still closed.

She sighed and conjured an arm chair next to his bed. Settling into it, she held his hand as he cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up he stared at her, asleep in the arm chair, forgetting for a moment why she was there. As the memories of the night before hit him, he reached for the glass of water, hoping that maybe he would drown.

"Don't think like that," Hannah said from the chair, stirring in her sleep. She opened her eyes and met his stare.

He had said that out loud. He was so used to being alone that he forgot others could hear him when he thought out loud.

He slumped against his headboard. "You didn't have to stay."

"You asked me to."

"I was drunk."

"You were _crying_." She crossed her arms across her chest.

He sighed, closing his eyes again. "You don't know me that well. You don't have any responsibility when it comes to me."

She moved, sitting on the edge of the bed. "We are still friends, Ron. We went to school together. Just because we weren't close doesn't mean I would leave you alone while you're drunk and crying."

He didn't say anything but she knew he understood. He lay back down, asleep again a few moments later. Hangovers were killer, she knew, so she let him sleep it off.

When he woke again she was gone. Blearily, he sat up and got out of bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He grabbed the glass on his table and headed for the kitchen, ready to add it to the growing pile in the sink.

He felt bad. Hannah had only done what he asked of her, had tried to help her, and he had fought with her. That was always his problem, he supposed, fighting with those who wanted to help.

Hermione when she chastised him about his homework. His mother when she wanted him to come home. Ginny when she wanted him to get out of his apartment. George when he wanted Ron to visit his shop for a few laughs. Neville when he wanted Ron to hang out with him and the other guys.

Still wearing the clothes he wore yesterday, he stepped into his living room, blinking from the light pouring in through the huge window. Swearing, he moved to close the curtains—he never opened them, so how had this happened?—but a voice stopped him.

"Don't you dare touch those curtains, Ronald Weasley. You need some light in here, and being able to see is actually nice on occasion."

The voice sounded so much like Hermione that he spun around, eyes wide, looking for his frizzy-haired best friend. But all he saw was Hannah.

His grin faded, a stony look taking over his features, and he pushed past her into the kitchen where he set the glass in the sink. Just as he was about to go back into his room, he realized something was off about the room he was in.

It was clean. No old food taking over the counter, or dishes piled dangerously high. The counters and cupboards were scrubbed clean, and the room smelled like lemons.

Surprised, he checked the living room. The old papers were gone, the stains on the sofa and pillow removed, dishes gone.

He looked at Hannah, who was standing in the center of the room.

"What happened to you?" She whispered softly, gesturing at the now clean room. He knew she meant more than just the dirty mess he had left before.

"What do you think?" He snapped back, glaring at her. It was pointless, what she had done. In a few weeks it would fall into the same state of disrepair she had just saved it from.

"You can't just stay cooped up in here all the time, Ron, letting your home deteriorate. You need your family, your friends."

"I don't need anything," he said angrily.

"It won't bring them back," she said quietly. "Closing yourself off to everyone won't bring Harry and Hermione back."

"No," he replied evenly, "but it hurts less."

She crossed the room quickly, closing her arms around him before he even had time to move. He let her hold him as the tears he had been fighting betrayed him, falling silently down his cheeks.

"We were a trio," he said quietly. "We were supposed to be a trio, _the _trio, forever. We were going to live in this apartment after the war. That's why I don't take care of it. I hate it. But I can't bring myself to leave."

Hannah tightened her hold on him.

"Everywhere I go people treat me like a hero. But I'm not. They were the heroes, Harry and Hermione."

"They couldn't have done it without you, Ron. You were their best friend. They needed you."

He shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm not the one that killed Voldemort. I'm not the one that figured out how to kill the Horcruxes."

"You had the idea about the Basilisk fangs," she said, remembering the story Neville had told her.

"Hermione would have figured that out eventually—"

"Stop that," she said angrily. "Stop making your part in Voldemort's defeat less than it was. It doesn't matter who would have figured it out because you _did_."

He remained silent in her arms. After a few moments, he reached out and pulled her closer, missing the feeling of having someone close to him, even if it was just Hannah Abbot, a girl he didn't know very well at all.

"I miss them," he whispered into her hair.

"I know," she replied. "But you're strong, you'll get through this."

He doesn't know what made him ask her what he did next. Maybe it was because he had deprived himself of human contact for so long and she was holding him so close. Maybe it was because he needed someone who he hadn't neglected or fought with for the last three months. Someone who would allow him a fresh start because he hadn't ruined their relationship too much.

"Will you help me?" His voice cracked slightly, the weight of his question falling on her shoulders.

She was still for a moment, thinking it over. He was asking for help after months of refusing anyone who tried. He needed someone. He needed her.

"Of course."

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><p>Over the next few months, Hannah got as close to Ron as he would allow. She convinced him to return to his family and allow her to stay in his apartment, keeping it clean and livable for when he decided to come back.<p>

His family was grateful for her. They enjoyed having Ron around again. He was happier now. He fought less, hung out with his friends, talked to his siblings. He was getting closer and closer to the Ron he was when Harry and Hermione were still alive. He would never be exactly the same, they knew, but they didn't expect him to be. How could he, after losing two people he considered family?

Sometimes Ron would leave the Burrow for the apartment, not because he didn't want to be there anymore but because he wanted the closeness, the familiar touch that he got only from Hannah. She was always there, ready to take him in her arms so he could cry without having to worry he will upset anyone else.

The day came when he finally let her in as close as he could. He was lying in her arms as she whispered to him that Harry and Hermione hadn't wanted to leave, that they want him to be happy and that's what he was doing, he was making himself happy again.

He reached up with his hand, tilting her chin down, and kissed her.

She smiled at him, resting her chin on his shoulder, and continued to whisper to him long after he fell asleep.


End file.
